Is it just the wine?

Nights like this are special. It is why they warm your soul and brighten your thoughts. Or is it just the wine?

This is prime time for dinner parties. But even after the guests have left, the wine is drunk, and the food is finished, the night isn’t over. This story is a nod to all the hosts and hostesses out there.

The chairs are empty, but the table is full. Three sets of glasses are scattered across the table - resting after a night of heavy labour. Lipstick stains three of them - burgundy, pink and red. Burgundy also stains the ivory tablecloth in small misshapen dots. Chopin's nocturnes fill the silence - his fingers seem to press harder on the keys now everyone has left. Two candles flicker in their thin black holders. After giving most of their life to the night, they're nearing the end - now no more than stumps with an hour at most left to give. White wax has found a route down the long legs of one holder. A hard mound grows taller with every drop. It’s the beginning of an ant hill. 

“Did you have a good night?” his hand settles on my shoulder.

“I did, did you?” 

“It was great, Darling.” His lips find the top of my head. 

“Was the food okay?”

“Marvellous. I’ll wash up. You can finish the last of the wine,” he says, pouring the bottle until it’s empty.

“Thanks,” I say, peering up at him. He looks tired. 

I prop myself up on my elbows, one hand supporting the weight of my head, the other swirling my refilled glass on the table. The idea of aerating wine must have its origins because it is a calming thing to do after a few, right? Akin to watching a log catch fire and crackle with every new degree. Or watching the waves swell and crash while you’re drying in the sun. 

It could just be the wine and the hearty food, but my chest is warm, and my mind is light. It’s easy to see why dining together has always been a staple of humanity. There’s nothing quite like cooking for your friends, setting up the table and opening another bottle. It’s a celebration that doesn’t need a fixed date in the calendar, though it helps. After a night like this, I always ask myself: why don’t I do this more often? To which the answer is life. In one way or another, life always gets in the way - it pulls the breaks whenever it gets the chance. And it’s impossible to counter its intrusion - it comes at you from all angles. One week, it’s late nights at work, chasing emails and meeting deadlines. Next, it's your health, the flu or a migraine. In another, it’s your energy. When you’re surrounded by people all day, it’s hard to muster the reserves for the people you want to be around. That’s why nights like this are special. It is why they warm your soul and brighten your thoughts. Or is it just the wine? 

I pull my head from my right palm and look over my shoulder. He's at the sink, busy with a sponge and cutlery. To his right, a growing pile of plates, bowls, pots and pans. It’s remarkable how many things are needed to cook a meal. When I was a student, I needed a bowl and a fork. Instant noodles, packet pesto pasta and jacket potatoes don’t require much more. Occasionally I sucked it up and busted out the grater for more evenly distributed cheese. But tonight, I've used almost everything we have. Literally every glass - wine, champagne and water. All of them now await their turn to be washed, sleeping on the table, stained with kisses from our guests. 

“Do you hear what Lucy said about Damond?” I ask, looking at Lucy’s red lipstick on the brim of her champagne glass. 

“Huh?”

“I said… Did you hear what Lucy was saying about Damond?” 

“About the messages?”

“Yeah. How crazy is that?” I say, turning to look at his back. 

“It’s pretty strange. But I don’t blame him.”

“He’s married!” 

“Sure, but have you seen Lucy!” I can’t see his face, but I can hear his smirk. He has always been a wind-up. 

“Wanna smoke a joint?” 

“Sure, let me just clear the table. Otherwise, I won’t do it until tomorrow.” I don’t move - I’ve done enough for one night. He comes and clears the table. He is this restaurant's waiter, and I’m the straggler, too drunk to walk home, waiting for her taxi to arrive. 

“Can you roll it?” he asks, passing the paper and grinder. 

“I can try.” 

The wind is strong on our balcony, and the rain is delicate, disguised in the fast-moving air. I cup my hands and strike the lighter. It blows out as soon as it catches. I try again - then once more after that. On the fourth attempt, the flame catches the paper, and the end of the joint glows orange. I take a long drag, breathing in the night and the smoke together. Nights like this deserve to be savoured - even if that means standing in the rain. I hand him the joint and watch him smoke. His eyes are tracking the road below. He’s counting cars or peering through windows, letting his mind wander. One of his eyes winces as the wind picks up, throwing some rain his way. Droplets gather on his brow, then snake their way down the side of his face. He’s a character in a film, taking a moment before the final act. 

“So, when is the next one?” he asks. 

“Next what?”

“Dinner.” 

“Not sure. In the new year.” He seems happy with that; a smile crawls onto his lips. 

“I think we could open a secret restaurant,” he says, exhales and turns to look inside. The tablecloth, the candlestick and the arranged chairs are still in place. The candles are almost at the end; one is just a flame burning in its holder in a pool of wax base. 

“And what would we put on the menu?” I ask. My stomach is churning with carbs, wine and bubbly. The mist is sobering and I lean into it. An arm lengthens along my chest, stopping my weight from swaying too far. 

“We’d keep it simple. Set menus only.” 

“And where are our guests going to sit?” I nod towards the table, placed arrogantly in the middle of our apartment. “Right there?” 

“Why not? In summer, we could have a table for two out here. It would be like a private terrace.” He takes a satisfied drag and then offers it to me. I shake my head, and he pulls me close to his side. I can smell smoke and sweat. Suddenly I become aware I need a lot of things - another drag from a joint isn’t on the list. He senses my energy waning - it’s written on my face. I must look like a candle stick at the end of its life. Small and misshapen. The door creaks when he opens it, and warm air replaces us. The room feels totally different now; gone are the echoes of the night. Chopin has left his stool - he has gone home for the night. Only one of the candlesticks has a flame now, but that has dwindled to a feeble flicker. It’s teetering on the edge of oblivion as a dinner party does once the final drop of wine is drunk - or the coffee goes cold. 

I sit on the toilet, brushing my teeth while I listen to him return the table and chairs to their rightful place. My head is heavy again, and my brush feels awkward in my hand. It is as if it has been switched for another. 

“Can you bring me some water?” I ask, spitting the foam into the sink. My face looks greasy in the mirror, my eyes are bloodshot and itchy. I hear him opening the tap and filling a glass. Removing my contacts feels just as cumbersome as brushing my teeth, but I manage to do it without poking my eyes out. 

“There you go.” An arm stretches through the ajar door with a glass of water gripped between its fingers. 

“Thanks,” I say, and the arm withdraws. I look at the oils and creams I use for my skincare routine, neatly waiting for me in their box. Then, I pump soap in my palm and wash my face with water. One day won’t hurt. I’m in bed, trying to get warm, when I hear the night coming to a close. 

"Did you use my toothbrush?" 

"Huh?" 

"Don't worry." 

He brushes his teeth for an age, and I lay awake concentrating on the strokes. The apartment falls into a swaying silence. I hear him creeping into the living room, then I hear a gentle blow and know the last candlestick no longer has a flame. 

---

Love, Luke